"ids" poems
In the context of today's supernatural energy,
The brains in which I inhale are forever spinning.
I bought my eyes from the black market
and cannot see clearly anymore.
Saint Hildegard lived in yesterday's supernatural
with purchased Germanic eyes of green and ivory...
as mine are.
She is the best friend that I have never known
and would never **** my vibe.
But all of the energies running around
are killing the vibe that races through my spine.
And I want to see life as a puppy does,
running and frolicking low to the ground...
digging up tennis *****
You can count on me, though,
to see life as a the gangsta I'm not,
and not as the hound I so want to be.
But I'm neither gangster nor *****
but only a Lupine plant leaving seeds to be eaten
by the breathers with brains who take all I have to offer.
And nobody calls me the lucky one,
but I know I could be if I had somebody else's organs.
And if I were to dance with you
I may call myself the lucky one,
but I settle for dancing for you
and I'm not lucky at all.
And I don't know how I'm at the end of the line
when there are no girls in front of me.
Can you tell that there are no girls in front of me?
This line goes on for miles,
and the stereo I listen to today's supernatural frequencies through
goes on for miles.
You're the dearest loving zombie I know,
so take me away in a helicopter
far away from the breathers and the bleeders.
And we'll be the only ones in the sky
and we'll walk about the clouds
and engage our supernatural ids
and create a make-believe empire.
But there are things to do outside the windows
and nothing can possibly be how I wish it to.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
So it would seem,
the only difference
twixt Animal Behavior
and Human Behavior
is a capacity
for written
and spoken
Language.
-
---Epilogue--
According to various 'dictionaries,'
the word "anthrocentric" doesn't exist.
I, however, define it as the same principals of
sexism, ethnocentrism, or nationalism,
but applied to the perception
of a validated stratification of Human Beings
over the entirety of the Web of Life,
rather than to simply
the *** ethnicity or nationality
of another.
I feel
the natural world around us
is far more sacred than we are-
although we are spawned of it.
I feel
it is so much more sacred
due to an absent respect for it
and the other beings
which it hosts so well;
so selflessly.
We **** Sapiens Sapiens*
have defiled our own sanctity
via lack of respect
for ourselves,
let alone others Beings;
Human, and otherwise.
Apparently, that isn't very popular.
So many Egos
would rather depend on
intentionally small sample sizes,
while many Ids
would rather self-preclude
the challenge of self-observation
fore a mere and fleeting
(most likely destructive)
comfort.
I venture to say that is a present form of cowardice.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 5:00 AM UTC
Time goes by so fast!!
Here and now are our moments to cherish for
Eternity! We have the chance to make a change, the
Kids won't be alright if we don't do something now.
In these precious moments of childhood, innocence, and
Diversity, we have a chance to
Show the kids that they can make
A difference and change the world for the better.
Right now, there are many kids who are "lost" and feeling
"Empty". They don't have anyone, but we
Need to show them that
They're not alone!
All these kids are our FUTURE!
Love and caring,
Really caring, showing them that together we can be one.
In our culture, there's still so much hate
Going around that our kids will grow up
Hating people based on their skin, who they love, and so on.
Together; here and now, we can change that!!
The Kids Will Be Okay
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
We waded knee deep in the puddles
of vacant lots when the flood filled
our gutters to the brim.
When the rain died down and the water pulled
itself from the streets we watched the rainbow
of oil swirl around our ankles,
walked the wooden footbridge that broke
apart under the weight of our feet,
the water-logged wood rot
splitting while rusted nails slid
out of place. We followed the streams
back to the plaza, back to fake IDs
and the ash-stained tobacco shop.
We found ourselves under flickering
lights, leaning against the rusted
siding of the family market, faces hidden
in a mask of smoke. We got lost
in the electric hum of the laundromat's cyclic drone.
They paved over it all -- covered freckled
skin with cloth and hot tar,
crushed vacant houses like hollow skulls,
ignited neon lights and street lamps,
strip malls and drugs stores
that burn holes into old hiding places.
They still try to sift through shattered glass,
silence the hiss of the popped bike tire,
wipe away the blood flower that blooms
from my scabbed knee.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 10:29 AM UTC
JUST SAY YOU LOVE!!!
Love is a feeling,
that excites your heart,
With no tension,
fear all that you have.
You fall in love with someone whose
inner soul is pure,
Without actually looking its external appearance
That’s for sure.
Attraction is not love
but a crush,
Which everyone feels more than once
Which ends like a bubbles burst.
Somewhere someone is made for you,
Only time is required for you to move.
Love is a special spice and colour of life,
That takes you to ninth cloud of height.
True love, only once you find,
So, love who ids sweet, gentle and kind.
Love never hurts you nor betrays you,
But always remain in bad & happy moments beside you.
Whom you love more, your expectation rises from them,
But never forget that they do wish the same.
For some…
Love is pain,
Love is Cain.
Love is respect
Love is suspect.
Love is devotion,
Love is possession.
Love is deep affection,
Or just a ****** relation.
Never regret falling in love,
Because you never choose love,
Love chooses you…
Just flow with the tune of love,
Just say you love…
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 10:04 AM UTC
When things were good, they were
weightless.
We could stumble down the streets
at four in the morning,
wearing hickeys like tattoos
we'd be ashamed of at dawn.
Sneaking wristbands from friends
with fake IDs,
or faker ****
And if we were low on cash,
we might take turns
lifting our shirts, shifting our bras,
until a flash of something sacred
earned a free drink.
I could have been
ashamed
if gravity were working.
But we were all
weightless.
Mistakes just floated away.
Our dresses were too short, and
our dresses were too tight, and
the boys wore shirts
that were good at hiding stains.
Sometimes we didn't even need words;
we could walk into
a smokey, sticky bar
and fall in love with a boy's arms
while he fell in love
with a too-short dress
and the chance to see underneath it.
And we knew
we'd be waking up
with those hickey-tattoos.
But we didn't care, because
we were all
weightless.
The boys just floated away.
Maybe we wouldn't find any
dance-floor-love,
but that was always okay, because
we were in love
with ourselves.
Our hazy heads
whispered pretty words,
and as we burned our throats
with shots of pure love,
pretty words began to slur
into a pretty song, but we could
never remember the melody
when we awoke.
So the next night
we'd shimmy into our too-tight dresses
and start ******* down
more liquid love
until we began hearing
that pretty song again.
We half-knew our sober hearts
would never be able to recall
the tune,
but it never mattered.
We were all
weightless.
Notes just floated away.
These nights, things are
heavier.
I'll pour myself some love,
but it burns like regret now.
I don't wear any too-tight dresses
because I don't much miss
the dance floor.
I don't miss the hickeys
or the four A.M. walks.
I don't miss the shirts
being lifted and pulled.
I don't miss the smoke
flooding the bars.
But I do miss the song
that I'll never quite know.
For though I am grounded,
that tune is forever
weightless,
and the notes will just float away.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 11:20 PM UTC
Fairy tales are how girls get to sleep
Girls who sleep sweetly next to siblings; best friends' pictures scattered about the room
their world is safe and full of love
But I have no prince, no siblings, no daily phone calls, no pictures, no best friends, no sweet dreams.
What does that leave me?
I stop to give a homeless man a taco and to ask him about life, love, healing, karma.
Frosty says I should stop by again sometime.
I smile
The teal green hat I bought in Japan makes me look silly;
I put it on, grin at the girl in the mirror and play with the fuzzy ***** attached to the ear strings.
Today I look up from my tv series to watch Madeleine in her favorite Madeline shirt, chatting with her friend while casually dusting our food storage.
The cute girl who swipes IDs manages an awkward conversation upon my every re-entry to the caf --
Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked her sexuality for no apparent reason, or pretended to ***** in the dish room.
My mother once broke her nose doing a pushup
Upward facing dog.
This’ll do.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
These pale little fingers
Are lavishly decorated:
Dried clay soil
Around and under jagged stubby nails
A pink crescent-moon scar
On the third one's second knuckle,
India Ink dried in drips and streaks
Deep whorl prints
Like no others- snowflakes, IDs
And slow to heal,
Painful to the touch,
These omnipresent little slashes,
Paper Cuts.
Mar 16, 2011
Mar 16, 2011 at 10:00 AM UTC
it’s not nearly as romantic as you’d thought; watching the world burn
having it crumble under the weight of your gaze
but here we are, the lucky ones beneath the gallows,
and we’ve got front row seats to the end of
the earth itself.
this acrid, unbreathable smoke is in my
eyes and
ears and
lungs and slowly pumping through my
blood
can you taste this desperation when we kiss?
am i the only one who feels this
sitting on cinders like it’s the hood of my car
and wishing we could see through the haze?
i’ll miss the noise, the feel of
cities rushing
two-lane highways brushing along my
well-worn and weary tires
and you’ll miss none of it, none at all
because you’re dead
and you’re difficult and he’s wearing your face but
it doesn’t matter. none of it does.
kiss me again to drown out the screams. i want another
shot at life, but it won’t happen now:
another car, another motel,
another rushed fumble out of our borrowed ties and IDs and lives
but all i’ve got is you and your coffee’s getting cold.
you’re not him but i can pretend with my
eyes shut -
just don’t leave me with the wreckage.
you are my morningstar
and i’m haunting you with life.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object that he look'd upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him of the day, a part of the day
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
Climbing trees became a part of this child,
And playing catch, splashing in puddles, racing bikes down the block,
And tormenting neighbor kids,
And the falling down and the scraping of knees
Became a part of this child.
Nap time, time outs, smelling thyme and rosemary and lavender,
Digging through the crisp verdant garden
All became a part of this child.
Boy Scouts, dinosaur hunting, star searching, pencil drawing,
Became a part of him.
His own parents,
Reading aloud, arranging play dates, preparing snacks,
Supplying toys only to be forgotten about
for a stick or perhaps a box.
Mother off working, leaving by dawn, returning for dinner
And father, strict, the warden, always teaching responsibility,
Both becoming part of this child.
Vacations and swimming and visiting the grandparent and getting spoiled
Going to the zoo and seeing so many terrifying and exciting creatures.
His parents, always feeding and inspiring imagination
Becoming a part of him.
Walking to middle school became a part of him.
Lockers, combinations, IDs, pungent locker rooms, the labyrinth of halls
crowded and loud
The anticipation for lunch, the sweet sound of the three o'clock bell
The flurry toward the doors all became a part of him.
Pushups and crunches and laps and blown whistles
Loving every moment of the cool fresh air
Newfound freedom, licenses, cars, jobs
This responsibility became a part of him.
Plucking, scratching, squeaking, struggling, playing
Sounds of an unproven orchestra growing together,
All became a part of this boy.
Surviving the first day freshman year
So small, so young, so innocent
Growing, maturing, learning, all became a part of him.
School dances and football games and musicals and stress
Cool clay carefully sculpted, melodic rhythms played in tune, rubber ***** quickly dodged
AP class after AP class, notebook after notebook filled meticulously
New friendships formed, old friendships strengthened.
All this became a part of this child.
These became a part of that child who went forth every day
And who now goes, and will always go forth every day.
Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 12:51 AM UTC
Back to the beginning
And back to the start. Let's
Change our future and raise our
Kids right!
Time to stop robbing banks and
Others; stop being racist, sexist, or whatever
Everyone--STOP! We are the same,
All on the inside. Doesn't
Really matter the color, *** who we love- we are all
The same-human beings-mammals-
Hope that helps-if not, we are like M&Ms; fighting over your favorite color only to realize they're all chocolate on the inside.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
They call me, kids, the Kool-Aid Man
Because I mix it well;
And when I mix the Kool-Aid, man,
It hits you hard as hell!
The trip's a scream; it's rotten; it's mean;—
It casts an evil spell;—
It's a fast, full-throttled, steep careen
Into the bowls of hell!
And only heroes can drink it, kids,
So, pour it down; it's swell
For erasing egos, erasing ids,
And making heroes as well!
O.O
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
Since when did lighting our lungs on fire and vomiting up our youth become fun.
When did cigarettes and *** become a carnal desire
and **** and ******* a symbol of pure lust.
How is grinding on some sweaty unshaved guy *****
When did fake ids become the one thing we have on our Christmas list
memorizing the identity of another so we can lose ourselves in stale beer and cheap *****
When did ***** songs about ******* become the theme song of passionate love.
When did losing yourself become the game of fun.
I have been there
I have been lost
but unlike the rest of adolescent adults,
I do not desire it.
Everyone wants to grow up too fast.
act too old for their own souls.
be provocative and disgusting to show that you know what it all means
to show that you can do it too.
Good for them.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 11:16 AM UTC
our love
is like no other
fly, my butterfly
kafka can't see
who we're meant to be
an extraordinary beauty
fails to be seen
when the mirror's fogged
by government ids
your name is sublime
not the noise they shout
for it is simply air
and rings false every time
your silhouette and your voice
have never been a conscious choice
but to ever deter
the watercolor within
is to shake a can
that never opens
so go, dance in the rain
rewrite history's pain
you are my pride and joy
melting different metals
creates a wonderful alloy.
Dec 17, 2024
Dec 17, 2024 at 1:06 AM UTC
~ for Rob Rutledge -
@ 6:15am
~~~~~
we all are living, reading and writing,
paycheck to paycheck
even if by happenstance, our bellies full,
for the white sheets we lay our words
down and upon, our supporters of
ids and egos of egg shell thin lifes
are the bare emptied shelves
of our unending, still ongoing
pandemic pandemonium,
razing times
of eroding joys
the sheets are blank, but our souls
wearied, helmed and whelmed
by the unending of the unexpected
that demands, orders and commands,
no matter what
pour it out blasting
unleashing the rage
compelled, compiled,
completely compulsing
we
selves ordered to compose
giving form and firmament
to our vaporous innards,
releasing new oxygen from
the tides inside and without,
clashing ideas, irregular notions
that demand we poets responsible
for reconciliation and auditing for
human truths
we awake barren but weighty,
the emotions are rustling in the
now daily, common,
mighty metors of gusts of higher winds,
spreading fire and measles to spite,
not despite
our fragile failings & flailings
oh goodness and grace,
let that be the colors of
our skin, our face,
essay on, sashay with a
swinging motion,
yes, rhyme and rhythm
and deliver us with words
so soft, they shatter the
gloomy desperation of
what confronts our entirety,
when the terrors of our
sleeping dreams cannot be
differentiated from the
sad eyed waking
ones
so write, and right,
these troubled times,
when trolls, dragons
and yet unnamed monsters
seek to take away our
tiny green planet, watered,
seeded and plentiful fruited
plains enough to satisfy us all
if we are so emboldened to choose
all of us over our lonely selfish selfs
Feb 25, 2025
Feb 25, 2025 at 6:31 AM UTC
AT NIGHT WHEN I'M ASLEEP IN MY DREAMS I TRY TO SCREAM BUT NOTHING EVER COMES OUT. WHO AM I? WHO ARE YOU? I WANT TO KISS MY BEST FRIEND AND I WANT TO KISS A STRANGER AND I WANT TO KISS A MAN AS OLD AS MY FATHER. ALL TONGUE AND TEETH AND RAW AND ***** JUST KISS ME, I'M IRISH IS A SYNONYM FOR DRUNK.
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
You are the blaring alarm,
the cold whisper of fan blades
the first thing I feel
a reminder of the life we're borrowing.
You are the black pen,
the IDs swinging on navy sling
the very last thing I think of
before leaving.
You are the three-pages homework
of five classes
that I would cram in the morning.
You are the two hours sleep,
inside the cab,
that I indulge every evening.
You are the second one
on my Sudoku puzzle,
the scientific calculator
for my course on accounting.
You are the seemingly non-existent hole
of the silver needle,
you are the one I'll always be missing.
And throughout the day
of embodied lies,
savored smiles,
breath-taking laughs,
agonizing hollowness,
you would creep in--
fill me.
You are all that I see,
everything else fades into the background.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
It's September 2013.
A Coronal Mass Ejection scorched the Earth,
collapsing the Global infrastructure.
Those that weren't fried up in the killshot
traverse a world nearly foreign to them,
devoid of any form of luxury.
They make their ways to the FEMA camps,
setup all over the United States,
because that's what their TVs told them to do,
just days before the blast.
But they knew since the Remote Viewing program began in the Cold War.
A teenage boy,
now forced to be a man,
leads his Mother through the terrain,
avoiding building fires and roving gangs.
Finally they arrive,
the camp like a shimmering oasis
in the burned out barrens.
They stand in line at the gates,
poor and huddled masses.
When it is their turn,
they present the IDs they were informed to bring.
"Sorry son, your name's on the list,
you can't get in."
"What do you mean? What list."
"The list of people who didn't know how to keep their mouths shut on facebook.
So, you're out, but your Mom can come in."
Another guard approaches and squires her in at gunpoint.
"No, I won't go, not without my Son!"
To which the guard interjects
"Shut the **** up..
take your clothes off..
we're going to pour powdered sugar on you."
"Noooo! Mahhhhhhhm."
"We're gonna **** your Mom kid." the gatekeeper laughs.
Insert Whale sound
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:58 PM UTC
It's the same every time
Waking up in a panic
The hangover's dull
Gradual throbbing
The amplification of existence's malaise
Reducing my feet
To a slow shuffle
My girlfriend has been calling it the same way
For six years
"You'll get up and check your wallet and make sure you have your keys"
And I do
She's beautiful because she's right
She's also gorgeous
But continually right
I get up and slip my fingers into the
Many compartments of my wallet
Making sure I feel the greasy
Cold plastic of the credit cards
The three IDs
One to drive a car
One to carry a gun
One to count as a person
And the flood of relief I feel
When I finger these plastic cards
Is alarming
How my mind jumps from jovial
Drunken thoughts
To hard
Plastic ones
In the midst of sleep
At ungodly hours of the morning
My identity personified
In polyurethane rectangles
I get back into bed
And again
After confirming that all
The clasps that keep the mask
Snug to my face
Are still there
I embrace her warmth
Under the thin comforter
She drapes her leg across me
While I kiss her forehead
"You smell like liquor"
Before browning out again
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
Kids after marriage are going to be our angels,
Rightly inspiring us to make meet the ends,
Inspire us they will in days and even in the nights,
Pacify us both they will in the harsher of times,
It is going to be inspirational enough for us,
Joint efforts would be needed to be put in their brought up,
In your love and kindness I do believe wholeheartedly.
Adding up to our joy in our lives they will be,
No grief is ever going to be great enough with them,
Destroying all our problems will they always be.
Microseconds of togetherness will be remembered,
Exaltation we will get serving & teaching them hand in hand.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
Written in one shot.
Word association:
Father?
*******
Mystery?
***
Love?
Overrated.
My psychologist
once taught me how to steal cable.
It's one of those life lessons
that I carry with me, y'know?
Like how some people
keep fortune cookie fortunes
in their wallets
next to their IDs
and pictures of their kids.
You find those kinds of things
all over the place,
littered in gutters
and streetcorners all across
the globe,
but when you're downtrodden
knowing how to say
"Where is the nearest bathroom?"
in Japanese
isn't really worth ****
I'll start gaining weight
here pretty quick.
Fat Michael
is not a myth,
and I hate him.
"Write a poem?"
Christ,
I can't even
write my own name
anymore.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Energy games these days.
Synergy claims.
Learn to relay, signals
Impounding on my ears.
Listen closely my dear.
It's all in here. There's just
Nothing to fear.
Tear fully, submit consciously,
Celebrate the oath of life.
Taste the flavors of the Earth.
She is here for us. And all.
And everything.
Questioning may continue
For a short time more.
My desire to know for sure,
Though will out soar,
Will implode the weak,
Low vibrations, Til they barely dim.
Peace is within, the faithful
Chant. I now sing this hymn
My heart has the beat,
And when I watch,
My mind finds the keys,
The steps, the recipe.
Faith is only the beginning...
I must be my best me.
Perfection is reality, no need to strive.
Standing up, Notice the toes on my feet,
Just being me. As I have no other
Choice.
Releasing IDs,
Sculpting energy,
Creating,
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC
it was a beautiful day
out on the street
the kids are laughing
in the scortching heat
the sun is shining
down on the concrete
the children run around
in bare feet
the dogs chasing them
in the sprinklers
baithing suits and shorts
his and hers
the day is young
the sun is bright
nothing is wrong
and everything is right
the world of kids
what can go wrong
this day will be over
before long...
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 8:00 PM UTC
before
we
know
kindness
we are silly moons
a primal scream
ids
gaggle of wants
having not yet understood
our own vulnerability
and its connection to others
the agony of self
uninitiated
by the sacrifices yet to come
in effect a criminal mind
as a child growing up in brooklyn
my friends and i would
make a mad dash
out of ching-a-lings
chopsuey restaurant
after eating sumptuously
with out paying the bill
electrified with terror and excitement
at the thought of being grabbed
by a chinese boogy man
and laughing breathless
when finally
out of harms way
sadistically delighting
by the panic
we caused
as some red faced hyperventilating waiter
caved trying to catch
five little hell boys
fury fast
all adults
were filthy rich
compared to us urchins
idling in the darkness and tenements
sniffing glue
in a number 2 brown paper bag
hole in the pocket poor
slow starters
uninspired
pressing through
the dragging weight
of a barren world
not yet knowing
we too will toil endlessly
worry sick for loved ones
and quake at endless indignities
trying to eek out a living
like the waiter we robbed of his pittance
on this Sisyphean rock
our lives
stretched out before us
a white knuckle ride
between hope
and quiet desperation
struggling not to be swallowed
through pitted black holes
and fake floors
into downward mobility
our pin ball souls
like small metal *****
jarred and knocked
from one ringing bell to the next
in a turbulent game
player or not
without an inkling
of the fated
dark signature
written into our genes
by deaths hand
before
we
know
kindness
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC